


Soulmate 101

by GatesKeeper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotionally Constipated Dean Winchester, M/M, Mutual Pining, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Soulmates, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GatesKeeper/pseuds/GatesKeeper
Summary: Man up, Winchester,Dean lectures himself as he lingers across the hall from Room 239.You’re sneaking into a class, not trying to rob a convenience store.Still, he waits for a huddle of students to approach the entrance so he can go in, unnoticed, with the group.After all, this wasn't justanyclass. Technically, it was calledInterpretation of Dreams—but everyone knew that was just a fancy way of saying Soulmate 101.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 81
Kudos: 527





	1. Chapter 1

_Man up, Winchester,_ Dean lectures himself as he lingers across the hall from Room 239. _You’re sneaking into a class, not trying to rob a convenience store._ Still, he waits for a huddle of students to approach the entrance so he can go in, unnoticed, with the group.

It’s one of those theater-like classrooms, with rows of seats arranged in a half-circle around the professor’s podium—each row rising higher towards the ceiling. He takes the carpet-lined steps two at a time before plopping down into a chair in the farthest back corner, where he immediately hides his face behind one of his notebooks.

He’d double-checked, and Sam didn’t have this class until Thursday—but his little brother is an annoyingly popular freshman, meaning that any one of these pimple-faced kids might still recognize Dean—and he thinks he’d rather drop out three years into his Mechanical Engineering degree than suffer through that kind of embarrassment.

That’s why he’s instantly on alert when the chair a few seats down from him is suddenly filled with—Dean hurriedly takes a second glance—a really hot guy.

If Dean were into that whole librarian-in-training vibe.

Dean knows a lot of dudes who have mastered the art of perfectly tousled bedhead. His roommate, for one, uses enough hair gel that Dean’s always surprised flies don’t get stuck to him as they whiz by. This guy… definitely isn’t one of those. As he watches, the other student runs his fingers through his silky, dark hair—proving exactly how it ended up looking like he’d recently been electrocuted. Light scruff along the sharp line of his jaw suggests he hasn’t shaved in a day or two—and his lips are so pale and chapped that Dean feels tempted to nip at the bottom one with his teeth, just to get some color into it—before pressing him back towards the nearest wall and—

OK, so he’s into the librarian thing a little.

But this is his goddamn _problem_. He gets caught up on a pretty face—and most of the time, that’s all the other person is looking for, too. Maybe, they find a way to stretch out the one-night stand into something lasting a couple of months—but then Dean gets bored of them or they get bored of him. Lisa had explained it as she wanted a “serious relationship”—saying without saying that that wouldn’t be possible with _Dean_. And he’s tired, OK? Of trying over and over again to build something that isn’t gonna last.

Which is why he resorted to this. Technically, the class is called _Interpretation of Dreams_ —but most people refer to it as Soulmate 101.

Turns out when people are unconscious, their minds naturally drift towards their other half. If you fall asleep while your soulmate is awake, your dreams are your own, but if you are both out of it at the same time, the dreams tend to blend together.

For example, Dean knew without a doubt that last night’s nightmare—of flames licking up his bedroom walls—was based on his own distorted memories of a long-ago house fire that left his mom with some pretty gnarly burns along her left arm. But the feeling of wings suddenly sprouting from his back, taking him away from the blaze—that _had_ to be soulmate. For one thing, he’d felt—comforted—being up in the air when normally he had to be tranqued to get onto an airplane. Beyond that, it was just _different_ when his soulmate was there. Everything had more dimension, somehow.

For the lucky lucid dreamers, finding their soulmate was simple. They’d make their dream-self look in a mirror or write down their phone number and the connection was made. For most, though, they had to spend a lot of time combing through their own dreams—trying to figure out what belonged to them, what belonged to the other person—and what, if any, of it was tied to something researchable in the real world.

“Can I help you?” the hot guy asks—voice low like the rumble of Dean’s Impala. Dean startles, realizing he’d been staring this whole time.

“Sorry, Man, just spaced out,” he says, clearing his throat before pointedly facing front again.

A few minutes later, Professor Mosley strides in. Dean has never had her for anything—but he can tell just from the way the couple hundred students instantly hush that she’s _not_ the kind of teacher to mess with. For a second, he thinks her eyes land directly on him—like she _knows_ he isn’t supposed to be here—but just as quickly, she turns away to switch on an ancient projector.

Today’s discussion is apparently called “The Devil in the Details.”

The general gist seemed to be that while everyone can conjure up fantastical elements in their dreams, the more detailed the image, the more likely it is to be based on something the person knows explicitly. A blurry vampire was probably just an idea; a dark-haired, blue-eyed vampire with a Cajun accent and a fisherman’s cap was more likely an interpretation of somebody specific.

Dean wants to scoff and dismiss that as common sense—but, the truth is, he’s never stopped to consider things that way before. He flips open his notebook to a new page, scratching the back of his neck as he tries to remember parts of his dreams that stood out as being exceptionally vivid without being pulled from him.

A lot of what comes to mind is nature stuff. To Dean, most flowers are splotches of color on top of stems with some leaves thrown in—but when he thinks about it, the flowers in his dreams tend to be almost photorealistic. Once, he dreamed of a swarm of honey bees—but instead of being freaked out, he’d just silently watched their little fuzzy bodies flying around and over each other when there’s no way he should have known what bees really look like up-close.

“OK, that’s it for today,” Professor Mosely announces, glancing at her watch. “Assignments for next week—I want all of you to start a dream journal. A full page every morning right after you wake up. If you can’t remember what happened, choose a detail from another day, and consider what this might have to do with your significant other. We’ll be switching journals with a partner later.”

Instantly, desks squeak, papers shuffle, and chatter starts up again—all getting louder by the minute.

Dean shoves his crap into his bag, only to give a startled—“Shit!”—when he finds Hot Guy right behind him. “Dude, make a _noise,_ ” he insists, heart rate calming down only marginally considering how _close_ the other man remains—and how blue his eyes are. _Holy fuck. That color shouldn’t even be possible._

The guy’s forehead furrows. “I was wondering if you wanted to be partners when it comes time to exchange journals.”

“What? _Why?_ ” Dean blurts out.

“Because I don’t know anyone here… and you were actually taking notes,” he responds in a tone of voice that said he was already having second thoughts.

“I’m, uh, not actually in this class,” Dean admits.

“You’re not…?”

“I just—the subject sounded interesting, so—I, you know…”

Hot Guy takes another half step forward, ignoring the skitter that comes from Dean backing up into the desk behind him. “What made you want to start looking for your soulmate now?” he asks with a curious tilt of his head.

“Uh…” Well, it’s not like he can really deny it. “Can we maybe not do this here…?” Students for the next class are starting to filter in and between their presence—and the guy’s stare—he’s starting to feel a little claustrophobic. Hot Guy nods, gathering his own belongings, so they can walk out together.

The fresh air helps. It’s a nice day outside—by Dean’s standards anyway. Open leather jacket, warm apple pie and cold ice cream kind of weather. Students rustle past—same as the leaves on the ground. Meanwhile, Hot Guy is quiet, not pressing—just soaking in the moment alongside him.

“I guess, if I had to pick one thing, it was those reactor videos on Youtube,” Dean says at last, pointedly not facing the other man as he talks. “Have you seen those? Like someone records themselves watching a TV show for the first time—usually a popular one everyone else has already seen—and you watch them watch it.”

“And this is… entertaining?”

“For me, yeah. It’s fun—seeing other people laugh at the funny parts, get all amped up about the twists. Except, sometimes the reactor misses something obvious—or they get mad at a character for something without really understanding _why_ the character acted that way. And as much as I want to yell at them for being ten kinds of stupid, I can’t.”

“You _could_ ,” Hot Guy argues. “They just wouldn’t be able to respond.”

“Yeah, well, I hope to be a good 60 years from yelling at inanimate objects. Point is, I just got to thinking about how it would be cool to introduce my soulmate to those same shows someday—see all _their_ expressions when shit starts to go down. And supposedly they wouldn’t be an idiot—but if they _did_ overlook something important, I could actually call them out for it and maybe they’d help me see things a new way too and—” Dean feels his face burn underneath his freckles. “God, I sound like such a chick right now.”

His companion frowns at him. “You sounded like you were being _honest_ —up until that last part anyway. There’s nothing wrong with expressing your feelings—or with being female, for that matter.”

Dean winces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

A few flimsy excuses are formed and then discarded before they ever make it past his lips. The disappointment from Hot Guy is palpable.

And then, somehow, they’re at Dean’s dorm still with the weight of something unspoken between them. “This is, uh, my stop,” he mentions, gesturing toward the brick building with _Edlund Hall_ written on a brass plaque beside the door.

“It’s mine, as well,” his companion states. They both linger for a moment more. Then, nodding as if he has made a decision—or maybe as a form of goodbye—the other man bypasses Dean to slip inside.

Dean never even got his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no update, I'm sorry. But I do plan on finishing this sometime this month. Hope you guys like this chapter.

“Nghhh!” Dean grumbles as the sound of his alarm clock pierces his sleep. Eyes still closed, he grabs the first thing he finds on the floor—a boot, he guesses—and chucks it in the direction of the blaring. Unsurprisingly, he misses—and burying his head under his pillow doesn’t do much to block out the repeated _enh, eNH, ENH_ noise.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” his roommate says from his bed across the room.

Groaning, Dean hauls himself up, stumbles several feet over to his desk, and slams his fist down on the ‘off’ button.

 _What had he dreamed about?_ Oh, right—he’d imagined he was a wolf, running through a castle, trying to get outside to see the full moon.

He doesn’t know what use that could possibly be, but he jots down as much as he can remember in his notebook anyway.

It’s been a full week since his first Soulmate 101 class, and he thinks he’s been able to figure _some_ stuff out. For one, his soulmate’s an early riser—so if Dean sleeps in too late, he’s likely to forget the dreams that they shared and only remember his own—hence the alarm and why he put the clock far enough away that he can’t press snooze twelve times in a row.

Besides that, there are some common themes—animals, running, feeling trapped. It makes him kinda sad for his other half, honestly.

Then, a couple of days ago, he thought there had been a breakthrough—a real one.

Many of the details are fuzzy, but he _knows_ he dreamed of his own face—and that his soulmate was there, watching.

Since then, he’s been slightly on-edge, wondering if any moment, they’re going to show up or contact him or something. Which is ridiculous because—how are they supposed to know that it’s _his_ face and not just any other random character from a dream? And even if they _did_ figure that out, what are they supposed to do, put up “Have You Seen My Soulmate” posters?

He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. God, he needs coffee.

Throwing on the first clean T-shirt he can find, he stuffs his notebook in his backpack and heads out—but not before turning his alarm clock back on again.

“Murder! And it’s not going to be quick either!” his roommate screeches. Maybe _that’ll_ teach him not to eat Dean’s last slice of pie from the communal fridge.

/////

Dean sneaks into the classroom the same as before—only he’s a little bit later than last time and Hot Guy is already seated.

Cautiously, Dean takes the spot next to him and waits to see if the other man will say anything. Instead, he’s just met with an intense stare. Even if the dude might look a _little_ like a nerd, Dean’s suddenly sure he’s a nerd that could mess someone up if he wanted to. Still, he accepts the challenge and stares right back.

“Are you planning on attending every class for no credit?” Hot Guy asks at last, and Dean is relieved to hear nothing but curiosity in his voice.

“Maybe,” he responds. “Besides, if I _do_ find my soulmate through this, I expect them to give me a hell of a lot of credit for it.”

Hot Guy squints slightly. “What do you--” but before he can finish the question, Professor Mosely strides in.

Somewhat reluctantly, Dean turns his attention towards where she’s setting up another PowerPoint.

“Have any of you ever read a Nicholas Sparks book?” Professor Mosely starts in her slow song of a voice.

A few girls raise their hands amidst some dude’s snort—but the Professor quickly silences him with a glare.

“And where are his novels set?”

“Mostly North Carolina.”

“Why?” she prompts, one eyebrow raised expectedly.

Surprisingly, a male voice speaks up—and crap, that’s one of Sam’s friends, isn’t it? Evan? Kevin? “Presumably because he’s familiar with the area—grew up there, maybe?”

“You’re close, sugar,” Professor Mosely promises, and even from here, Dean feels like he can see the guy blush. “He actually moved there after college and has lived there ever since.

“Dreams—they’re a lot like books in a way—they’re creations from the author’s mind. We try to invent new things—but, deep down, we rely on what we already know. And a lot of what shapes what we know—is where we’re from.”

Using the projector, she pulls up a color-coded U.S. map. “Now, imagine you’re going to the movies with friends. You decide to have popcorn and—a soft drink. Chances are, if you’re from one of the areas marked here in blue, you’re going to call it ‘pop.’ If you’re from the northeast… well, you’d probably ask for a ‘soda.’ In the south, most people call it Coke.”

“Don’t bother writing all this down,” she informs the class while switching to a slide that divides the country between the states where people say “firefly” compared to those that say, “lightning bug.” “I’ll be sending the presentation to all of you after class.”

Dean leans to the side, “Hey, uh--”

“Write down your email. I’ll forward it to you,” Hot Guy promises.

For some reason, that makes Dean blush. “Yeah, thanks.”

He scribbles down Impala67@gmail.com on a piece of paper, as Professor Mosely quickly goes through maps for “sneakers” vs. “tennis shoes”, “car-a-mel” vs. “car-mel” and “traffic circle” vs. “roundabout.” He also adds his phone number before folding it in quarters and handing it out to the other student. Just as their fingers brush, he has a sudden thought. “Shit, hold on,” he mutters, snatching it back, before adding “Dean Winchester” to the top of the note.

Hot Guy raises his eyebrows when he is offered it again as if to ask, _Are you sure?_ until Dean makes a shoving motion. Hot Guy’s hands are warm—and surprisingly calloused—though the rough spots are in different places than the ones Dean has his from working on cars in his Uncle Bobby’s auto shop.

“Picking up on these language cues may help you figure out where your soulmate is from--” Professor Mosely continues. “It’s also not uncommon for dreams to feature food or activities specific to a certain place. Someone who dreams of snow probably hasn’t spent their whole life in Florida. _Probably,_ ” she reemphasizes.

Dean feels something poking his arm. When he looks over, Hot Guy is handing out his own note: _Castiel (Cas-tee-el) Novak, (555) 732-9981, 2BeeOrNot2Be@yahoo.com_.

A thrill runs through Dean’s veins—like stepping into an icy shower, but in a good way.

 _Got a lot of people who say your name wrong then?_ Dean writes near the bottom before sliding the paper back over.

Hot Guy huffs a breath—before writing. _Yes._

_What if I just call you Cas?_

Castiel’s forehead furrows like he’s really giving it some serious thought. _That is acceptable,_ he finally decides, and then, for good measure, draws a tiny smiley face to show his approval.

_Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy that uses emojis?_

Cas’s only answer is to draw a frowny face.

Dean rolls his eyes. Using his arm to cover what he’s doing, he makes a couple of marks and hands the note back.

Try as he might to hide it, Dean sees the tiny smile that sparks into Cas’s eyes at the sight of both the smiley and frowny face—now both wearing cowboy hats.

Suddenly, Dean feels a prickle on the back of his neck. Turning, he spots the Professor looking straight at him. “Paying attention, are we, Mr. Winchester?”

“I—er,” _How does she even know my name?_ “Yes, absolutely.”

“ _Good_ ,” she emphasizes—before launching into the next section of her presentation.

Dean’s skin still itches with the teacher’s awareness for the rest of the class—which covers how people have muscle memory, even in their sleep. So, if “you have a dream of say—running through a castle--” _OK, is this teacher psychic or what?_ “—chances are that the layout of the rooms echoes a place that you or your soulmate know well—their home, for example. It’s why people who sleepwalk tend to not run into walls—because they remember all the turns and obstacles.”

Dean’s so lost in thought that he’s surprised when class ends 10 minutes later. Hurriedly, he shoves his things into his bag, hoping to catch Professor Mosely before she leaves for the day—because really, _What the fuck?_ when Hot Guy blocks his way, once again standing super freakin’ close to him.

 _Normally,_ someone encroaching on his personal space like that would be making a move—but there’s something about this dude— _Cas. His name is Cas_ , Dean reminds himself—that makes him think that everything ‘normal’ is out the window.

“I apologize for getting you called out,” he says, voice extremely deep and earnest.

“What? No, Man. That was—I’ve had teachers _pissed_ at me before. This was nothing.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “And what do you usually do to get them so angry?”

“Well, I--” Dean abruptly stops himself. Had he really been about to tell the guy he was somewhat crushing on about the time Rhonda Hurley slipped a pair of pink panties into his back pocket without him knowing it, so that when he got up to do his Spanish presentation, there was no way Señora Alvarez wouldn’t see them? He used to be smooth, right?— “You know, late assignments, mouthing off. That kind of thing,” he answers instead.

“That’s at least within the acceptable range of student deviance. My cousin, Gabriel, once filled a teacher’s car with 800 gallons of tapioca pudding.”

Dean’s completely thrown. “I— _why_?”

“As I understand it, he called the teacher ‘Pudding’ and was given detention for it. This was retribution.”

Somehow, the follow-up questions, (“Did he _make_ the pudding or buy like 2000 of those little cup things?” “So, he spent, what, _hours_ scooping out mini cups into--?” “Wait— _how_ much did he spend?”) take them all the way out of the classroom, through the building, and out into the quad without Dean even noticing it. Guess he’ll have to talk to the Professor next time.

Dean is just preparing to ask what the teacher did about their Just Desserts when his stomach gives an audible growl. Cas’s eyes drop down his body and back up again.

“Yeah, uh, guess all this pudding talk is making me hungry,” Dean states the obvious, scratching the back of his neck. They’re only a few blocks away from the mess hall. “What about you? In the mood for lunch?”

“No,” the other man says, simply—and damn, Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been turned down that quickly—or that politely. He’s also acutely aware of how much he wanted Cas to say ‘yes.’

And yet, when he starts to head in that direction, head down, Cas follows only a step behind.

“What are you doing?” Dean wonders out-loud, stopping in his tracks.

“I’m not hungry, but I thought I might accompany you. That is—if you don’t mind?”

Dean thinks he might get whiplash from how much this guy is inadvertently yanking him around, but he definitely doesn’t mind.

/////

15 minutes later, they’ve commandeered the left-hand side of a table meant for six. Dean convinced Cas to get a burger, too, on the basis that he’d eat whatever Cas didn’t—but judging by the way that the dark-haired man’s going to town on his sandwich, he figures that they probably should’ve gotten three.

“So, what about you? You got any idea who your soulmate is?” Dean ponders out-loud as he eats three fries at a time.

“Not much,” Cas insists, talking out of the side of his mouth around a bite of food.

“Not much is still something.”

“I’m fairly confident that it’s a man. Caucasian.” His eyes meet Dean’s briefly before he reaches for his water bottle. “Someone with freckles.”

 _Interesting._ “And what are you basing all this off of? I’m guessing you haven’t seen his face or you’d have more details.”

“I—uh—” Color rises high in the other man’s cheeks, which is even more interesting.

“Casss….,” Dean prompts.

“I’ve heard it’s a very common dream to have. Where you—you think you’re late to a test, but when you show up, you realize that you’re—unprepared and—unclothed—”

It takes Dean’s brain a second to catch up to the conversation, but when he does, he chokes on his food--“Wait, wait, wait,” he coughs, making the time-out gesture. “You’re telling me that the stuff you know about your soulmate is—because you’ve seen his dick?”

“The dream was from a first-person perspective and it was not _my_ penis, so I have to assume—and plus, they’ve also shared a few more… explicit dreams that provided me with a similar angle and I—Dean, _stop laughing_.”

The thing is, Dean’s not sure if he’s chuckling because that’s hilarious—or because he feels bad for the poor guy who’s apparently been sending his soulmate dick pics for years. Especially since, when he thinks about his own dreams, _his_ soulmate’s gotta know what he’s packing by now. Not to mention he’s _also_ freckled in certain areas...

The laughter dies down.

He and Cas lock gazes—and it’s weird, considering how much work he’s put towards this, how ready he thought he was to meet his soulmate—that all he can think about is what it felt like at thirteen, standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon on his family vacation and realizing how small he was compared to something so big.

“Cas--” he begins, throat dry.

“Yes, Dean?”

Judging by what he sees in the other man’s eyes, he’s not the only one with the same question—and the same fear.

And then…

And then a couple of other college students _thunk_ their lunch trays down at their table, causing them both to start.

“I was just gonna say—that, uh, I hope that whoever your soulmate is, he’s more than just a dick.”

Cas narrows his eyes, clearly processing Dean’s response, but then gives a slow nod. “I think he is—but I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

_That makes two of us._


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next several weeks, they get into the habit of having lunch together after class. Turns out Cas is pursuing a linguistics degree so he can become a book translator, can Tibetan throat sing, and has apparently never heard the punchline to any joke ever.

“…I assume it’s because seven is a prime number, and prime numbers can be intimidating.”

“Are you serious, Dude?” Dean asks, shaking his head as he sneaks an onion ring from Cas’s plate. “It’s ‘cause seven ‘ate’ nine.”

Castiel considers this.

“That is a disturbing joke,” he finally declares, stealing one of Dean’s fries in return. “What’s another one?”

So, Dean runs through the gambit.

_(“Why don’t scientists trust atoms?”_

_“…Because they can react either positively or negatively with other ions?”_

_“Sure, let’s go with that.”_

_“What’s the real answer supposed to be?”_

_“Because they make up everything.”_

_Castiel’s head tilt is way too fuckin’ adorable._

_“OK, how about this... A blind man walks into a bar…”)_

Eventually, Dean has to start looking up jokes on his phone. “Why can’t you explain puns to kleptomaniacs?”

He can just _see_ how hard Cas is thinking. “Because… they will steal your jokes for themselves?”

“Because they take everything literally.”

This actually prompts Cas to laugh—a movement that crinkles the bridge of his nose. Dean is so screwed.

And it’s not just that Cas is unknowingly hilarious. Even without trying, they somehow wind up delving into serious shit too.

( _“So, yeah, my dad got pretty pissed,” Dean admits, the day they decide to take their food to go. They drive the Impala to a nearby lake and sit, eating, on her hood. “And then my mom went off on_ him _—saying that she didn’t realize she married a homophobic asshole and that if he wanted to ever sleep in the same bed as her again, he better get his shit together. And… I just realized that my mom basically got my dad to accept my sexuality by threatening him with no sex and can we please get blackout drunk now so I never have that thought again?”_

_Castiel rolls his eyes. “It’s a natural impulse, Dean. Your parents are people just like anyone else.”_

_“Oh, don’t pull that crap. You’re telling me you’re perfectly fine thinking about your parents going at it?”_

_“Actually, my mother had herself artificially inseminated when she turned 35 after coming to the conclusion that she wasn’t interested in a life partner. It’s possible that she’s never had intercourse.”_

_“Ew.”_

_Cas huffs in exasperation. “So, you are put off by the idea that your parents had sex to conceive you_ and _by the fact that my mother_ didn’t _have sex to conceive me. What, exactly, would make you happy?”_

_“Not having this conversation.”)_

And yet, it’s weird how talking to Cas just makes Dean want to talk to Cas more.

Dean confesses to the time he accidentally let Sam’s dog, Bones, out only for the Labrador to never be seen again—to having his first hand-job in the closet of an abandoned, supposedly-haunted house his friends decided to camp out at (side note—Garth totally thought the moaning he heard was a ghost)—and that he secretly likes Taylor Swift music.

In turn, Cas tells him about running away when he was 12 to go watch a rocket launch down in Cape Canaveral. He came back a week later to find his mother in the living room.

_(“She just said, ‘There you are,’ before going back to reading her newspaper. Suffice it to say, that besides my cousin, Gabriel, I’m not particularly close to my family.”_

_“You would think she would give more of a shit considering she went through the effort of growing you in a test tube.”_

_“I think parenthood was more of a literal experiment for her than for most,” Castiel murmurs, with a shrug._

_Dean nudges his shoulder until the other man looks at him. “Hey, at least you turned out hotter than Frankenstein.”_

_“Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster.”_

_“I’m guessing you’re better looking than him, too.”_

_Cas’s eyes smile even if his mouth doesn’t._ )

They talk about _so much stuff_. And yet, they never mention the one thing that is clearly at the back of their minds whenever their eyes meet for more than a few seconds. After all, it’s common for friends to ask friends about their dreams, but since that first day in the mess hall, they just… don’t.

Dean doesn’t produce any follow-up questions after he finds out that Cas volunteers at a wolf sanctuary on the weekends and wants to own an apiary someday—even though wolves and bees have continued to be a consistent theme in his dreams. Just like Cas doesn’t question it when Dean stops attending Soulmate 101—only showing a slight jolt of surprise when he finds Dean waiting outside the door for him after class so they can have lunch like usual.

They work around to having breakfast on certain mornings too. The third time, their usual waitress, Hannah, slips Cas her phone number on his half of the receipt and Dean doesn’t comment. But he does smirk into his cup of coffee when Cas leaves an extra-large tip—and the receipt—behind.

“Seems kinda stupid to always get two checks, don’t you think?” he mentions, as they walk side-by-side towards the dorm rooms. “Especially since we tend to order pretty similar stuff. Maybe we should just tradeoff who pays?”

Cas glances at him out of the corner of his eye in a way that sends Dean’s heart racing. “That does seem like it would be more practical.”

Of course, it’s not like Dean doesn’t get his fair share of interest. One Friday night, he and his buddy, Ash hit up a bar on the west side of town and “this chick comes up wearing this backless dress to show off her fairy wings tattoo—” Cas raises an eyebrow, menacingly, halfway through Dean’s retelling and any thought he had of trying to build up suspense about whether he went home with her or not crumbles to dust in his throat. “So, I set her up with Charlie and hustled some trust fund kids out of their watches at the pool table,” he rushes out. “That’s it. I swear.”

“Finish your pancakes, Dean,” Cas tells him, and yup, he’s gonna get right on that.

Fifteen hours later, when he’s lying in bed, thoughts running rampant, he wonders—why _aren’t_ they talking about it? The big ‘it.’ The elephant in the room wearing a party hat and roller skates, demanding to be acknowledged.

Cas must have his reasons. For Dean, it comes down to—what if they’re wrong? What if the thing that they both believe to be true—and are already acting as if it’s fact—is just coincidence or—or wishful thinking? What if he doesn’t actually have a connection to Cas at all?

He’s not the teenage protagonist of some YA novel—it’s not like hearing he and Cas aren’t meant to be would be the end of the world. His heart wouldn’t be so broken that he’d never love again. But it would still suck ass. A lot.

And maybe they’d stay friends—but then what? They’d graduate college, slowly drift apart—and, one day, Cas would meet his soulmate, his _real_ soulmate—and where would that leave Dean?

Sam would argue that if Cas isn’t his other half, that means that his own is still out there, waiting for him—but the very idea seems to take the air out of the room. It makes his skin crawl and his chest ache—and OK, maybe that is a bit Twilight-y of him. But _damnit_ , Cas is frickin’ awesome, and Dean doesn’t want anyone else.

Throwing off the covers, he puts on his boots, grabs a jacket, and leaves his room.

Baby’s back seat might not be as comfortable as his bed—but there’s something about her leather and motor oil smell that always helps him relax when his mind is going a mile a minute—and he lets it lull him to sleep.

That night is the first in a while that he doesn’t dream. Even the familiar sight of Sam’s abandoned army man toy in the ashtray doesn’t stop him from feeling profoundly lonely when he wakes up. And _that,_ more than anything, is what makes him realize that enough is enough.

If Cas is his soulmate, that’s great—that’s awesome. And if not—well, it’s better to know now.

First, he threatens his roommate to find someplace else to spend the night. “Or else I’ll tell both your girlfriends where you _really_ went over Thanksgiving break.”

“And go where?” Hair Gel demands, wearing nothing but his boxers and drool.

“Away,” Dean declares.

Once that’s taken care of, he surreptitiously sniffs himself and yeah, he definitely needs a shower. It’s as he’s coming out on a puff of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist, that he notices that his dorm room is a complete mess. Of course, by the time he finishes cleaning it up, he needs to shower again. Then, somehow, he gets super sweaty when he’s at the store stocking up on snacks until he figures, what the hell, third time’s the charm, so he showers _again_.

Suffice it to say, he _really_ smells like eucalyptus by the time he’s knocking on Cas’s door at 2 o’clock Saturday afternoon.

“Dean,” Cas says, with undisguised curiosity in his voice—which makes sense, considering Dean’s never showed up at his room before—just like Cas has never been to his.

“I—” Dean takes a deep breath and puts on a pseudo-confident grin. “—was gonna do a Star Wars movie marathon and I wondered if you wanted to join me?”

“Are you interested in watching the movies or my reactions?” Cas asks, which shouldn’t be a loaded question, but it kinda is.

Dean sticks his hands into his pockets. “Both?”

Cas nods, seemingly pleased by that answer. “Just let me get my phone.”

“And I, uh, should probably mention. The movies are kinda long and there are nine of them now, so—we might not get through all of them even if we stay up all night.”

Cas turns back towards him, slowly—or maybe, it just seems slow to Dean—his usual intense expression transforming into something softer, almost hopeful. “I’ll grab a few more things then.”

/////

Thirty minutes later, they’ve done nothing but place an order for pizza and arrange themselves as far away from each other on the double bed as possible—and Dean’s already wondering how he’s gonna survive however many hours of this when there’s an electric charge beneath his skin that makes him painfully aware of every movement Cas makes—or even when he so much as breathes.

Cas seems tense, too—but it’s _Cas_ so his posture’s always slightly stiff. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s freaking out like Dean is. “Shouldn’t you press play?” he asks, words ghosting by Dean’s cheek—and yeah, he basically signed himself up for a full day of torture.

The game of something’s-going-on-here-but-we’re-not-talking-about-it escalates quickly. First, it’s Cas mentioning that he can’t see the screen properly and asking Dean to adjust the angle of the laptop. Of course, this obscures _Dean’s_ view—until they eventually close some of the gap between them so they can both watch the movie without glare.

Luke, Han, and Leia are in a trash compactor about to be crushed to death when their pizza arrives, prompting them to sit even closer together so that any errant pepperoni that falls off their slices will fall back into the box.

By the time Darth Vader is battling Luke, they’re touching from their shoulder down to their leg, which means Dean should fully be able to feel Cas’s gasp of shock when Darth Vader declares “I—am—your father”—but there’s nothing.

“Seriously, Dude, that’s a big reveal!” he exclaims.

“Really?” Cas questions, with a furrow of his eyebrow. “If the writers wanted it to be a surprise, they shouldn’t have named the character Dark Father then.”

Somehow, this offends Dean on a personal level.

They’re ten minutes into Episode VI when Cas puts a hand on his leg and tells him to “Stop pouting.”

“I’m not!” he protests, even though he can feel his bottom lip unstick from his top lip with the motion. Still, he makes an effort to fix his attitude. It helps when he notices—amid the Rebels attacking the Death Star—Cas’s hand is still there—warm and steady—and distracting—against his thigh.

Maybe too distracting. “I’m gonna get a drink,” he announces, clearing his throat when he hears just how weird his voice came out. He points at the mini-fridge across the room. “You want anything?”

“Sure. As long as it doesn’t have caffeine in it,” Cas clarifies. _Right._ That’s probably the last thing he needs too.

And yet, the adrenaline pumping through him means that they circle around to the prequels—and make it all the way through Episode II—before his body begins to feel tired. “Cas?” he asks the other man, whose eyes look even bluer in the light coming off the screen.

“Yes?” the dark-haired man asks, calmly.

“It’s pretty late.” Pretty early actually. Thank God neither of them has classes tomorrow. “Maybe we should, uh, press pause on this and get some shut-eye?”

“I was waiting for you to say that,” Cas smiles, sleepily—and Dean knows it’s the truth in more ways than one.

It’s weird how domestic it feels—taking turns at the small sink to brush their teeth—climbing back into bed together—this time in pajama pants. It’s a sensation that’s only magnified a thousand-fold when Cas instantly turns on his side and grabs Dean’s arms to wrap them around his waist.

Dean risks brushing a kiss to the side of his neck, thrilled by the slight shudder that races through Cas’s body at the fairly innocent touch. “Good night,” he whispers, into what seems like almost-unbreakable quiet.

“Sweet dreams,” Cas responds.

/////

It doesn’t take Dean very long to figure out exactly what _kind_ of dream he’s having tonight. He’s in a forest at night, but the full moon seems to be providing plenty of light, judging by all the details he can see in the plants around him. But it’s kind of hard to pay attention to any of that when _Cas_ is also there—pinning him against a tree. There’s a rough scrape of bark against his lower back where his shirt has ridden up—standing in delightful contrast to the plush lips seeking out his pulse point.

Dean buries his fingers into Cas’s wild mess of hair, encouraging him to move closer—and “nggh,” _yes,_ his body definitely appreciates the slight graze of teeth.

It takes him a minute for his brain to get in gear enough to realize he could be touching—really touching—Cas too. Slowly, he drops his hands down to slide them over Cas’s ass—beneath the loose fit of his jeans but over his boxers—helping bring the other man into the V between his bowed legs—and God, Cas’s broken whimper—the involuntary thrust of his hips….

And yet, just as they start building a rhythm between them, his vision blurs—images layering over other images like translucent film. One second, he’s watching Cas’s open mouth gasp out his name—the next, he’s looking at his own face, biting his lip in pleasure, with an already-forming dark bruise along his collarbone.

Another moment passes and he’s facing Cas again—hands roaming under Cas’s shirt to pinch one of his nipples—the next, there’s a shirt being pulled over his head by… himself? and somehow he’s reaching forward with Cas’s deft fingers to undo his own belt, to pop the button on his jeans.

“Dean! Dean!” he hears Cas’s voice call out.

“Mmhhm, Cas…”

“Dean! Wake up!”

/////

He’s _probably_ woken up in more compromising positions than this in the past, but none of them actively come to mind. His body’s covering Cas’s and it takes him a good few breaths to stop the instinctual thrusting of his hips, especially when Cas’s own dick twitches noticeably against him in response.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, attempting to roll off of him, but Cas only uses that opportunity to get on top instead.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Cas answers back, gravel-gargled voice even thicker than usual. “I just wanted us to be awake for this.”

At his words, the dream comes flooding back—the forest, the moon, the shared sensation—and Dean has to close his eyes for just a minute or risk getting overwhelmed. “I don’t—Cas, I’m not—I don’t _deserve_ a soulmate like you.”

“Of course. You deserve someone far better,” the other man promises.

Dean can’t help but snort. No one’s better than Cas.

“But so long as you don’t _object_ to being mine, I promise to spend every day making you feel liked—and loved—and—”

“Cas!” Dean gasps.

“Desired. Does that sound amenable to you?”

Dean’s first thought is “Ditto”, followed by “Do that again,” but this is important. _Cas_ is important, so he slows them down, waits until Cas is fully looking him in the eye, and presses their lips together, trying to pour everything he’s feeling into the rather chaste touch. “Soulmate or not, I’d choose you, OK?”

Cas blushes, burying his red face into the bend of Dean’s neck and nodding.

A few seconds pass before they resume moving together—and it’s not perfect. Dean gets his head stuck trying to get out of his clothes, Cas accidentally rams his elbow into the wall—and yet, it’s so, so much better than anything Dean’s ever imagined before—because this is reality.

/////

Dean adjusts the camera one last time to make sure they’re both in view before pressing play.

“Hi, I’m Dean,” he says, before looping his arm around soulmate. “And this is Cas, who has never seen a single episode of Dr. Sexy in his entire life. Poor, deprived man.”

Cas crosses his arms, “You realize there are actual deprived people in the world without access to clean drinking water—let alone cable TV by which they can watch unrealistic medical dramas.”

“OK, you can’t go into this with a bias. What makes you think it’s unrealistic anyway?”

“I do talk to your brother, you know.”

“Yes, well, stop. And you agreed to do this with me, so you can try to have a good attitude.”

“I agreed to provide you and Youtube with my honest reaction, not a positive one.”

“Well, it’s gonna be both because you’ll be hooked within three episodes. Actually, two episodes--”

/////

Later, when Dean goes to edit the footage, he saves the ten minutes of them bickering to show their test-tube babies someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, Two days later than I said, but that's not too bad, I hope.
> 
> If you like this work, please consider checking out some of my others:  
> Soulmate AU: [Meet Cute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22384300?view_full_work=true)  
> Celebrity AU: [Rumor Has It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030730/chapters/57819565=true)  
> Canon: [Truth Be Told](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621739/chapters/51558172)  
> Want to talk to someone about SPN?  
> I'm [@_GatesKeeper on Twitter](https://twitter.com/_GatesKeeper)  
> and [Gates_Keeper on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gates-keeper)


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